Back at the house, by the time Ryan finally sat down to eat, the house had already grown quiet in that particular way it always did late at night, not silent, but subdued. The kind of quiet where footsteps softened, voices lowered, and even the lights seemed dimmer out of respect for the hour. He hadn’t been especially hungry, but he ate anyway. Habit more than appetite. The dining area was nearly empty, just one chef moving quietly between the kitchen and the counter, tidying as she went. Ryan ate with the same discipline he applied to most things in his life, steady, efficient but his mind elsewhere. His thoughts kept drifting, despite his efforts, back to the afternoon. To Sylvie’s silence. To the way she had walked ahead of him earlier, her goodbyes brief, her attention clearly elsewhere. He had told himself not to overthink it. Still, something lingered. He had just set his cutlery down when the chef approached him, wiping her hands on her apron. "Excuse me," she said
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